Purple
by darthsydious
Summary: promptfill for thesecitystreets: Molly sees Sherlock wearing his purple dressing gown, cue her buffering. But revenge is oh, so sweet.


"Set your things down by the door and come through," Sherlock was already removing his coat and hat, hanging them on the hook. Molly unbuttoned her coat, shrugging out of it; Sherlock took it from her and then disappeared down the hall. Unpinning her hat, Molly picked up her bag, following the well-worn path in the rug to the parlor. Sherlock was already puffing away on his pipe, extinguishing the match and flicking it into the fireplace. He gestured to the chair nearest the fire, removing his suit jacket. She tried not to stare, trying instead to mind where she stepped (he'd been organizing his library again, and books were sprawled from one end of the room to the other). "Now, what have you brought me today?" he asked. She looked up to see him settling the collar of a new dressing gown at his neck. It was heavy silk, dyed a rich shade of purple. Red and gold cording finished the collar and tassels of the sash. It was such a rich shade it seemed to make his eyes shine, and heaven help her, Molly didn't know how it was possible for this bloody Adonis to look any better than he already did. Molly couldn't speak for a moment. It was bad enough she had trouble finding words in his presence, now, in the back of her mind, she was aware she was staring.

Blinking quickly, she reached for her carpet bag, reaching inside only to nearly drop the glass jar she'd so carefully packed. He caught it, smiling pleasantly at her, eyes sparkling with some kind of mischief.

"Wouldn't want to drop that, now would we? Mrs. Hudson wouldn't understand embalming fluid on her floor."

"No," she murmured, managing to tear her gaze away from him at last. She bent, flushed, trying to regain her composure as she rifled through the bag for the rest of what she'd carried from Barts. Sherlock seemed perfectly happy to wait, taking things as she handed them to him. "Fingers,"

"Lovely,"

"Hands, two sets,"

"Charming,"

"Half a brain-"

"Half?!" he looked annoyed, his charming smile gone.

"The other half got stolen by one of the cats in the morgue. If you really want it I'm afraid you'll have to take it up with him. This was the part I could save."

"Very well,"

"Two hearts, from that double murder,"

"From the Mortens affair?"

"Yes."

"Hm, Miss Hooper I would say you are a romantic deep down."

"There's nothing romantic about murder," she replied, closing her bag.

"No, but how telling to bring both hearts today, and from such a fascinating case."

"No one would notice if they're not included with the bodies," Molly said. "And- and you said you didn't have enough organs to study…"

"So I did, how good of you to remember," he murmured, stepping closer.

"Yes well…it's…what your brother asked me to do…keep you entertained."

"Did he? I wonder Miss Hooper if he had any particular form of entertainment in mind?" he voice dropped quite low and Molly was sure he could hear her heart pounding.

"I- I think he meant supply you with cadavers." He seemed to frown, as if disappointed, but stepped back, shrugging.

"Quite so. Now! Shall we attend to our goodies?" he picked up the jars leading her through the curtained doorway to his laboratory.

For a while, they worked in companionable silence, both sneaking glances when the other wasn't looking. Sherlock had known of Doctor Hooper's attraction to him from the beginning, he had not realized the extent until recently, and, upon hearing of her favorite color, decided to perform a small, harmless experiment, namely, the dressing gown.

It occurred to Molly, shortly into the first experiment that Sherlock had played a trick on her, for as soon as they set about the work of the day, his behaviour went back to the way it was. His flirtatious manner from only a few moments previous was quickly snuffed out and he was all business once again. Molly had an inkling of Sherlock Holmes' attraction to her (yes even with her stuttering around him) besides which Mary Watson had informed her of Sherlock's feelings for her. It was a shame he had to startle her so completely with his sudden change of heart.

Well. Two could play at that game.

"Mister Holmes, I don't suppose there's a change of clothes for me?" Sherlock looked up to see Molly Hooper with formaldehyde spilled down the front of her. "The jar slipped, your grips are hardly that," she didn't seem terribly frustrated.

"Top of the stairs, Watson's old room check the wardrobe." She nodded her thanks and disappeared through the curtains and upstairs.

Molly knew very well where Watson's old room was, but what she needed was in Sherlock's room. Seeing that there were four doors on the upper level, deductive reasoning told her Sherlock would take the room on the far end. It was towards the back of the house. Watson was the light sleeper, and had preferred the room closest to the stairs. Indeed, testing the handle of Sherlock's door, she was pleased to find it unlocked. On light feet, she stole into the consulting detective's bedchamber, quickly removing her damp shirtwaist and opening his wardrobe. Finding what she was looking for, she left the sodden linen on the floor, scurrying back downstairs.

"I hope I didn't take too long, any developments?"

"No, waiting for the results from this sample-" he looked up to see Molly Hooper in his _favorite dressing gown_ , tying the sash about her waist and smoothing the collar down. It hung loosely on her slender frame, and frowning, she untied the sash, tugging the fabric more securely and doubling the sash around her waist. The sleeves hung low on her arms, so she rolled them up to keep them away from the chemicals. The warm yellow silk was beautiful with her complexion, and the roses in her cheeks had not faded.

He blinked.

Blinked again.

He realized he still hadn't answered her. What was her question?

"The sample…" he struggled again. "Sample is…fixing the…clamp…br-waist- uh. Sample…" he trailed off, his train of thought hopelessly unsalvageable. He shut his eyes, cursing himself. "No. The sample is not finished yet." She was wearing his favorite dressing gown and no shirtwaist beneath good heavens. She passed him and the scent of her perfume (essence of gardenias) mingled with the scent of his tobacco on the collar of his gown. Turning her back to him, she set about measuring out liquids.

"Is there a set amount you need for-" she had every intention of finishing her sentence, but the sudden presence of lips on her neck made her stop and forget every last word. His hands rested on her hips, and he bent his head to inhale the heady fragrance of her perfume.

"Molly Hooper, that dressing gown was not in Doctor Watson's old room."

"No," he shifted, kissing the other side of her neck. "And you didn't put on that smoking jacket just because you didn't feel like wearing your coat anymore." She turned around, his hands remained about her. There was a distinct twinkle in his eyes as he regarded her.

"Touché," he swallowed hard, not even bothering to look ashamed for his actions, or their close quarters. "Would…you care to join me for dinner?"

"Oh I'd like to very much," she beamed. "But-" his smile fell. "I'm afraid I haven't anything proper to wear, and as my shirtwaist is currently dirty, it wouldn't be appropriate to wear this to dinner."

"My dear Miss Hooper, Mrs. Hudson has left dinner on the stove, she never takes her meals here. It is the pair of us tonight, and if you are not bothered by a rather bohemian way of taking our meal, I shan't breathe a word to anyone if you won't." Blushing, she nodded.

"I think…that might be very nice." They both returned to the counter, pausing briefly to link hands for the barest of moments before turning back to their work. Very nice indeed.


End file.
